MASQUES OF SATAN (42 page)

‘She’s not in,’ says a voice behind me. It is Billy Wilshire. He has taken his toupée off and so wears his woolly hat.

‘How do you know?’

‘I saw her go out with you-know-who.’

‘Rex, you mean?’

Billy makes a little grimace, and I can see that he is not quite in control of his features. He has been drinking more than usual.

‘Come and have a chat in my dressing room. We’ll have a nice drop of port. Nothing like it for the voice. I’ve always taken care of the voice: that’s why it sounds so young. I had a friend once — Derek, in the merchant navy — he said I sounded just like his mother. That was a nice thing to say. He was a nice lad: blond, over six foot, I called him Lofty. It was my little joke. He went away. Died. Went overboard in the South China Sea. Nobody told me why.’

I had followed him to his dressing room. When we reach it, he pushes me gently inside.

‘Go on, in,’ he says. ‘We’ll have a nice drop of port and a good old heart-to-heart. It’s nice having a heart-to-heart, isn’t it?’

There were two bottles on his dressing table, one almost empty, both carrying a label made to look like parchment and the words: ‘Golden Galleon: Fine Old Ruby Port Type’ on it. He filled two plastic cups with the dark red liquid that looks almost black in the dimly lit dressing room. The curtains are closed and there is no noise from the outside world. He shuts the door.

‘Mud in your eye, hairs on your chest,’ he says in a dull monotone, sinking half a cup. I sip the horrible, sweet, sticky liquid: the alcohol in it burns my throat. The room is stuffy and smells of Billy’s socks which are drying over the back of a chair in front of an electric fire.

‘Park your bum,’ he says. ‘Never mind the socks.’ He throws the socks into the sink and I sit down in the chair with my back to the fire. At the same time he carefully places a teacloth over his chestnut-coloured toupée that stands on a wig block on his dressing table. He must know that I know he has a ‘rug’ — that is what everyone calls it — all the same, I suppose he doesn’t want to remind me of it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to remind himself.

‘I found some very cheap carrots in the market today,’ he says. ‘Threepence a pound. I thought, “I’ll have some of that.” Never miss out on a bargain, me. So I bought six pound. You don’t fancy some carrots, do you?’ I shook my head. ‘No. Don’t have much call for carrots down the Metropole, do you? You see I’ve always had to look after the pennies. My mum and dad had an act on the halls and money was always tight. Then when Dad died in the accident, it got worse. It was lucky I was already earning as Little Billy Wilshire. Little Billy Wilshire, that’s me. Your dad’s gone too, isn’t he?’ I nodded. ‘There, see. We’ve got something in common.’ He paused and filled up his cup, then stretches out the bottle to fill up mine. I shake my head, but still he pours, his hand trembling slightly. ‘I’ll tell you something else I know about you,’ he says. ‘You’re in love.’

There is a long pause while he stares at me. His wizened face, his eyes, have the alien cunning of a little old monkey. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

I nod. He drinks, nodding complacently.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Soon as I saw you looking into that dressing room with those cow eyes, I knew it. “This lad’s got the bug,” I said to myself. I know all about that. I had a friend once . . . But you’ve got a problem, haven’t you lad? The one you love loves another. Am I right? We’ve all been there, you know. We’ve all been there. So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘No, you don’t. And does he know?’

‘Who?’

‘Who d’you think, lad? Master Sarson, of course. The blond bombshell.’

‘Why should I tell him about it?’

‘“Why should I tell him?” Oh, give me strength! Because he needs to know.’

‘But he’ll kill me.’

‘He won’t, believe me. That thing with Roxanne won’t last.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I’m sure. Billy knows. He’ll come back to you.’

‘Who?’

‘Who? You’re not being very bright tonight. I mean lover boy, Master Sarson.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but it’s not him I’m in love with, is it?’ Then a pause. I begin to understand. ‘You think I’m in love with Sarson?’ By this time I am hot and cold all over.

‘Don’t be silly lad. Of course, you are.’

‘God, no! That’s absolutely revolting. That’s disgusting! Ugh!’ My back is burning from the electric fire. I get up spilling the sticky port down my trousers, and make for the door.

‘Don’t you get all hoity toity with me, my lad,’ says Billy. ‘I’ve seen it all before, I have. I know you. Come here. Give us a cuddle. Show us your love-nub. We’re all friends here.’ I throw the rest of the port in his stupid old face and get out.

The next thing, I am out in the fresh air on the promenade looking out to sea. It is about a quarter past seven, nearly the half hour call for the second show. It is a dull evening, still light, of course, but the clouds are low. I am not thinking of anything, but my body is doing the misery for me. My eyes are thick with tears. I can barely see the sea, but I can hear it restlessly raking the little pebbles on the beach. There are two figures on the beach. I cannot see them clearly with my watery eyes: they look like ink blots but I can see they are holding hands. One of them waves at me. I wipe my eyes, and now I can see it is Sarson and Roxanne. I cannot run away, so I wait for them to come to me. Roxanne waves again; I wave back. As they come towards me from the sea, I can tell they are arguing about something. I catch snatches of querulous talk on the breeze but I do not know what it is about.

By the time they have climbed the concrete steps from the beach on to the promenade I can tell what it is about.

‘You ask him,’ says Sarson.

‘Why don’t
you
want to? He’s your friend. All right, we’ll both ask him together.’

‘No,
you
do it,’ he says. ‘It’s better coming from you.’

Suddenly Roxanne capitulates. ‘Okay, then.’ She looks at me and smiles warmly. ‘All right, love? Had a nice day?’ It is as if she is speaking to a child. She sees that something is wrong, approaches me, and hooks her arm into mine. She says: ‘Let’s go for a little walk together along the prom, prom, prom, shall we?’

‘It’s nearly the half,’ I say.

‘Oh, bother that! I can get changed in five minutes if I want to. Come along, love.’

We leave Sarson leaning over the promenade railings, staring at the sea. As we walk Roxanne explains to me what I already know about her and Giles Sarson. She then starts making a long explanation about something while my mind is elsewhere. Love and the wind have brought colour to her cheeks. Her brittle, birdlike quality has a vitality about it. I have never seen her look so beautiful, or so young. She is saying that Sarson and she need to ‘be together’, but this is impossible in her digs because of a landlady ‘with a face like a prune who watches me like a hawk’. On the other hand at the Metropole nobody minds anything, and, so long as she can avoid Rex (and Mort too, I suppose), she can spend time in private with Sarson. I do not ask why they need a bedroom to be private in because I know. And I know why I have to be absent from the room. She would like to come in the morning, because in the afternoon she will need to spend some time with Rex. I say nothing.

She says: ‘I know it’s difficult to understand——’

‘I do understand.’

‘No. I mean what you don’t understand is Giles needs me. So does Rex in a way. You don’t need anyone, Peter love.’

It takes me some time to think about this, but I decide that she is right. I say that of course she can use our room to be with Sarson, and I will vacate it for them. She throws her arms about me and kisses me on the cheek, as Judas did. Sarson is waiting for us, red-faced and scowling rather. When Roxanne tells him the result of our discussion he rather solemnly shakes hands with me. It is the first time I have seen him completely at a loss.

That night in my dreams I am treading on the clouds like one of the Sons of Light. Far below me I see the six who remain. Five are still far ahead, but one stumbles in the silver shallows.

VI

As arranged, I have got up early and had breakfast. I don’t know if Roxanne is with Sarson. It is a fine day, and I have been for a long walk by the sea. I have had a vague thought of trying to look for the coast and estuary that I see from the sky in my dreams. I have not yet been successful.

I come back to the Metropole at about ten, thinking that I might spend some quiet moments in the hotel ‘library.’ It is a rather old fashioned amenity for such a splendid modern hotel, but it is a favourite refuge for me. I can spend a happy hour or two looking at all the drawings in the bound volumes of
Punch
. I do not want to go upstairs to my room. It is a matter of pride: to intrude on a possible intimate moment between Sarson and Roxanne would make me feel like a child again. All the same, the inconvenience of it all annoys me.

But I do not get as far as the library. Rex is in the hall with his chauffeur, Mort, who has a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he says, as if I were late for an appointment. ‘Where’s Giles?’

‘I don’t know. He’s out somewhere. He’s not here.’

‘Well, I’m just off to Sandwich for some golf and I want someone to caddy for me. I suppose you’ll do. We’ll just have to leave Sarson behind. And where’s Roxy? I phoned her digs but she’s gone out too. I thought everyone would like a trip out to Sandwich.’ He seems very petulant and out of sorts, just like Sarson is when other people won’t join in his fun.

He takes out a cigar and then starts patting the pockets of his blazer. ‘Damn. I’ve lost my lighter again. Have you seen my lighter, Mort?’ Mort shakes his head. ‘I want my bloody lighter.’

I say: ‘Do you mean the one you gave to Sarson?’

‘Sarson? You mean Giles, don’t you. For God’s sake stop talking like a bloody public schoolboy. No, not that one. That’s just a silly thing some fan gave me. No, I mean my Cartier one. I’ve lost the thing. It has my initials on it.’ It is the unhappiest I have ever seen him. ‘Well, I suppose any lighter will do. Go up to your room and borrow the one I leant to Giles.’

‘But he’s not there!’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, boy, can’t you do what you’re told for once!’ To my shame, tears begin to start in my eyes. I sit down. Rex says: ‘Oh, dear God! Stop snivelling. Mort, go up to the boys’ room and get my lighter.’

‘The door’s unlocked,’ I say. And it is so. I had taken the key with me when I left Sarson sleeping that morning. I do not know why. To this day, I swear I do not. While Mort is gone, Rex does not exactly apologise, but he talks to me about golf, a new obsession of his, and how, in return for caddying for him, he would teach me how to play.

Mort returns carrying the silver pistol in his hand. He presents it to Rex who lights his cigar.

‘Did you see my wretched nephew Giles up there?’

Mort shakes his head. He has his back to me so I cannot see his expression.

That evening I see Sarson only briefly at tea in the Hotel. He says little, but is subdued and nervous. At the theatre I see Roxanne, who is pale and hurried in her movements. I watch from the wings as she assists Mephisto in his magic act. When she gets into the cabinet which is about to be pierced with swords there is look of fear on her face. But why? She has done it before, and nothing untoward happens, of course. During the interval of the second house I am walking down a backstage corridor when Joey King comes up behind me and, without a word, steers me in to Billy Wilshire’s dressing room.

Billy points to a chair and I sit down. He is in the costume he wears for the show: a grey flannel shirt, shorts, knee-length woollen socks and sandals. His horizontally striped V-necked pullover is comically too short. The chestnut toupée is on, but the peaked school cap rests jauntily on the bald wig block. He is a demonic caricature of a schoolboy, like the ones you see in
The Beano
.